Flash!
by EFAW
Summary: A picture is worth a thousand words…or just as many feelings. Wesvis. Oneshot.


**Summary: **A picture is worth a thousand words…or just as many feelings. Wesvis. Oneshot.

**Warnings: ** . Modeling. Touch aversion. Alex is my queen okay.

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

**OOOO**

**Flash!**

"_The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera."_

—_Dorothea Lange _

**XXXX**

Wes takes less than a dozen pictures before he says, "This isn't going to work," and starts packing up his equipment. The model, perched delicately on a chair, blinks at him.

"Isn't going to work? What does that mean?"

Wes ignores him. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience," he tells the model's agent. "Call our office if you'd like to reschedule." With one hand, he slings his camera bag over his shoulder; the other holds out a business card to the bemused man.

"What's going on?" the model calls. Wes doesn't look back, just strides out of the studio.

The model catches up with him in the lobby. "Hey!" He grabs Wes's arm, pulling him to a stop, and Wes just barely refrains from convulsively jerking out of his grasp. He's been working on that.

"Hey," the model says again, "What's going on? Why'd you leave?"

"Look…it's Travis, right?" Wes gently extricates his arm and takes a small step back, putting some distance between them. "I'm sure you're very good at what you do, but I can't photograph you."

"_Why?_"

"It's simple." Wes clutches the strap of his bag and smiles insincerely. "I take pictures of people, and you're a paper doll."

While the model gapes dumbstruck at him, Wes makes his escape.

**XXXX**

"Mr. Mitchell?" His assistant pokes her head in during a break, flashing him a sunny smile. "There's someone here to see you."

"Do they have an appointment?"

"No."

"Then I'm too busy to see them. Send them away."

"Copy that." She ducks out, letting the door shut quietly behind her. Wes rubs his temples and glowers at the account sheets spread out before him. God, he's going to be so glad when Alex is back from her vacation. No more trying to figure out all the accounting, no more taking Alex's jobs to cover for her. No more—

There's a soft knock, then his assistant sticks her head back in the room. "He doesn't want to leave until he talks to you."

He looks up at her, a frown tugging at his lips. "I'm busy."

"That's what I told him, but he's not leaving." She hesitates. "He said the paper doll has some questions."

Wes blinks and goes, "Huh."

**XXXX**

Travis Marks is sitting in the lobby, flipping through one of the photography books on the table. "These are really good," he says as Wes stops in the doorway. "You're good at your job, capturing people on film."

"Thank you. Why are you here?"

"Wanna know why you won't take my picture."

"I told you—"

"You said something cryptic and ran off." Travis closes the book and looks up; Wes feels vaguely pinned by that sharp blue gaze. "I want to know what you meant."

There are a dozen reasons to say no. Wes should dismiss him and walk away, wash his hands of it all and dump Travis on Alex when she gets back. He doesn't need this.

So he's not sure why he says, "If you come back at seven I can try to show you what I mean."

Travis gives him this stunning, brilliant smile and says, "It's a date."

Wes wishes he had his camera.

**XXXX**

At 7:17 Travis walks in, apologizing for being late. Wes waves his apology aside, directs him to a chair in the middle of the studio.

"I'm still setting up," he tells the model, even though he's been ready for twenty minutes. "Make yourself comfortable."

Travis flips the chair around, straddling it with his arms folded on the back. Wes puts his eye to the lens and asks, "How did you get into modeling?"

"I was scouted." Travis shrugs, fingers tapping on the chair back. "It was just like the movies. I was walking down the street and someone came up and asked if I've ever thought about modeling. I tried it out, got a job, and five years later I'm in magazines."

"You didn't want to do something else?" Wes asks. His flash is off; pretending to make adjustments, he clicks the shutter a couple of times. "Modeling seemed like the best career?"

"I dunno." Another shrug. Travis's shoulders shift and ripple like a lion's. "I never really wanted to do anything in particular. Modeling seemed as good as anything. I'm good at it, so why not?"

Wes hums absently, straightening from the camera. "Alright. We're good to go. I want you to model like you did the other day."

"Sure." Travis chuckles, rising to his feet. "You get right to the point, don't you?"

"I'm efficient." Wes turns back to the camera, and he watches Travis transform, going from a regular, good-looking guy to a model, the type of guy in magazines.

Wes starts taking pictures.

It's not a long shoot. Wes makes a few lighting adjustments and has Travis change poses a couple of times, but in maybe twenty minutes he has what he needs. Travis looks surprised when Wes says they're done.

"That's it? I thought you were going to tell me what was wrong with my pictures."

"Well, yes." Wes carefully packs his camera away and folds his tripod. "But I need to develop the film, so I can't show you until tomorrow."

Travis shoves his hands in his pockets, looking nonplussed. "How long does it take to develop film?"

"A few hours." Wes folds up the tripod and puts it in his bag. "So you can come look at it tomorrow."

The model narrows his eyes and rolls forward on the balls of his feet, like he's about to lunge forward. "This isn't you trying to get rid of me, is it?"

Wes gives him a wan smile and picks up his bag, discreetly shuffling back a few feet. "If you come back the same time tomorrow, you'll see what I mean."

Travis lights up, blindingly bright, and Wes has to drop his gaze.

"See you tomorrow, Wes," Travis says, and then he's gone, leaving behind the warmth of his smile and the smell of his cologne.

**XXXX**

Wes has always seen better from a distance. Up close, people are messy, confusing creatures, full of contradictions and hypocrisies and they're just _ugly_, in a way that goes far beyond mere appearance.

But from a distance…oh, from a distance people become beautiful, their flaws washed away until only their shining personalities come through. From only a few feet away, the radiance inside a person glows, and it's just amazing. Wes does everything he can to capture that radiance before it fades with the toil of everyday life and living, because there are so many ugly things in this world that it's easy to get bogged down. With his camera, Wes can bring just a bit of that amazing glow and light to the world.

And if standing behind a camera safely keeps the rest of the world at arms' length, well, that's just a bonus.

**XXXX**

"I brought food," Travis announces, thrusting a plastic bag in front of him.

Wes blinks and says, "Um."

Travis just grins. "Figured I might as well, since I didn't know how long we'd be. I hope Chinese is okay. I didn't know what you'd like, so I just got a little of everything." He slides into Wes's office, depositing the bag on the desk. "And any leftovers I can eat tomorrow, so yay either way."

"…thank you," Wes says slowly, closing the door behind him. He hadn't intended for this to take too long, just show Travis what he wants to know and send him on his way, but he's starting to get the feeling that nothing about Travis will be so simple.

Case in point: Travis is already unpacking the Chinese food, opening cartons and filling the room with the scent of hot oils. Wes hesitates. "Don't you want to do what you came here for?" The sooner they get this over with, the sooner he can be rid of Travis.

"After." Travis rips open a pair of chopsticks and picks up a container. "I haven't eaten since breakfast, man, I'm _starving._" He shoves a piece of beef into his mouth and chews expectantly at Wes.

Well, there's not much else he can do. Wes sighs in resignation, sits down, and picks up a pair of chopsticks.

**XXXX**

Dinner is…not terrible. Travis is the sort of person who has a dozen icebreakers on hand, and he doesn't seem bothered picking up the conversational slack when Wes falters. The food is cheap, the company is alright, and Wes hasn't had such a nice evening since Alex went on vacation.

So, of course, it all goes to hell.

It's not even anything major. It's just that Wes reaches for the rice at the same moment Travis reaches for the orange chicken and their hands bump and Wes goes blank. He recoils like he's been burned, and Travis's light apology cuts off mid-word, and Wes remembers all the varied reasons why this never ever works out. Why _anything_ involving _people _never works out for him.

"Sorry," he stammers, shoving away from the desk. "Sorry, sorry, I—"

Travis stares at him with wide eyes, hand still outstretched. Wes flees.

He hides in the darkroom and bangs his head against the wall a few times. "Fuck," he hisses to himself, "Fuck, _fuck_."

His hand is still shaking, but he can't quite forget how warm Travis's skin felt against his.

**XXXX**

Travis is, not surprisingly, still sitting there when Wes finally returns. He's cleaned up all the food and is browsing one of Wes's photo books again, and when he looks up, his face is carefully blank.

Wes sits on the opposite side of the desk and slides a manila folder at the model, keeping a careful distance between his hand and Travis's. Travis, for his part, sets the book down and folds his hands in his lap. "These are your pictures."

Travis waits until Wes has fully withdrawn his hands before reaching out, taking the cue and flipping open the folder. The photos are divided into two groups; the first, on the left, are candids, taken while Wes was pretending to set up his camera. Travis is smiling, relaxed, open and bright and vibrant on the film.

The group on the right is his model pictures. They're pretty, but… "They're flat." Wes reaches out, taps the top picture. "When you model, you sort of…shut your personality away. You're just another pretty face."

"Paper dolls," Travis murmurs, placing two photos side by side. He folds his hands in front of his mouth. "I had no idea. Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"People aren't usually as picky as I am," Wes admits. He fidgets. "Look, Travis. You're a good model. There's nothing technically wrong with any of your photos. You're in magazines; soon you'll be on billboards and commercials. But I can't photograph you."

Travis's head snaps up. "Teach me."

Wes falters. "I'm sorry?"

"Teach me." Travis taps one of the candids. "Teach me how to do _this_ when I'm modeling."

"I told you, there's nothing wrong—"

"You're an amazing photographer, Wes. I've seen your books. Bestsellers, every one of them. Because you see the world a certain way. Like _this_." He waves a hand at the spread candids in front of him. "I want to be the best. _This_—" He gestures to the other photos. "This will only get me so far."

"I don't…"

"Please."

Travis stares at him, eyes bright and earnest, and Wes is caught by the determination in his gaze. He bites the inside of his lip and nods slowly.

Travis breaks out in a wide, bright grin. "Awesome."

Wes's hands itch for his camera.

**XXXX**

They make it a steady thing. Unless Travis has a late job, he's there at the studio every day at seven. He usually brings food, but sometimes they just get right down to business.

"It's about opening yourself up," Wes tells him. "It's about letting your personality shine through. You've heard the phrase 'make love to the camera'? That's what you need to do."

"Make love to the camera, huh?" Travis says with a leer, waggling his eyebrows.

Wes snorts and ducks behind his camera to hide his flush. "Not like that. You need to be raw and exposed. _Vulnerable_. You need to show your truest self to the camera, and to everyone looking at your picture."

Travis falters a little. "That's tough."

"Yeah. Well." Wes twists the lens and peers through the viewfinder. "No one ever said it would be easy."

**XXXX**

Mitchell and MacFarland Photography does both professional and personal photography. Alex usually handles the professional aspect of things; taking pictures of soulless corporate workers for the company website isn't something Wes can manage.

Wes usually handles the personal side of things; wedding photography and family portraits and things of that nature. "It's kind of surprising," Alex said once, "You're such a misanthrope but you take damn good pictures of people."

As Travis said, his photography books tend to stay on the bestseller lists for a few weeks at minimum.

Wes sees things better at a distance, and people are always more beautiful from a few steps away.

**XXXX**

"You're getting better," Wes tells Travis after a week. "You're still holding back, but it's better."

"But not good enough." Travis frowns down at the photos in front of him, running his hand through his hair. "There's just something about being that open…"

"Yeah," Wes murmurs, because he understands.

"How do you do it?" Travis turns to him, studying him. "When you're in photographs, how do you open up?"

Wes blinks. "I—I don't get photographed."

"Oh." Travis frowns down at his photos again. "More comfortable behind the camera, huh?"

"Right." There's almost two feet of space between them; Wes resists the urge to widen that a few more inches. "Something like that."

**XXXX**

After that first night, Travis has been careful not to touch Wes. He starts to, sometimes—his hand reaches out like he's going to clap it down on Wes's shoulder, or he moves like he's going to bump their shoulders together. But he'll always catch himself before he completes the motion.

It's considerate and kind of sweet and Wes is reminded of Alex. No one else usually even _notices_.

"It's not like I'm afraid of people," he says one day, this sudden urge to explain it even though Travis has never asked. "Because I'm _not_. I just…I just don't like being touched."

"Okay," Travis says, easy as anything. Normally, Wes would let it go, but for once it doesn't feel like enough.

He fiddles with his camera. "You were right, you know. It's hard, being that open. That vulnerable. And—and sometimes…" He exhales, trying to grasp the right words.

"Sometimes," Travis says softly, "it's easier to just not let people get that close."

Wes glances up, startled, but Travis isn't looking at him. He's staring off to the side, eyes distant, and it's completely unexpected. Wes has seen Travis with every single wall thrown up, and he's seen the normal, everyday Travis, more open but still guarded.

This is something else. This is Travis without any of the masks and layers, quiet and a little sad, and for the first time Wes gets the feeling that _this _is what Travis is _truly_ like, beneath the charm and smiles.

He lifts his camera and takes the shot. Just in time, too, because the next second Travis blinks and the walls come up again. He smiles, leaning back, and says, "So, what's next?"

If Wes hadn't seen it himself, he would have thought it was just a figment of his imagination.

**XXXX**

That night, when Wes develops the film, he sees that shot and he has to sit down. He'd seen the look on Travis's face, but he hadn't understood it, not completely, not until it was laid out bare on photo paper in front of him.

Wes knows that look. It's utterly familiar to him in every way.

He never thought he'd have so much in common with Travis.

**XXXX**

The more they work together, the more Travis opens up. At least, that's how it feels to Wes. It's not so apparent in the photographs—there's always some improvement, but Travis still holds himself back.

But when it's just the two of them, the camera put aside, Wes feels like there's a connection there. Travis seems to smile more, eyes bright, and he exudes that radiance that Wes always wants to capture. Travis is good-natured and charming and funny, and Wes finds himself responding to it, reacting to it like a plant turning to face the sun.

There are people who were just born to grace the covers of magazines, and Wes can't help but fall under Travis's spell.

The first time he touches Travis is the end of a particularly good shoot. Wes reaches out and pats the model's shoulder and says, "Good job." Just for a second, there and gone, but the way Travis lights up, he might as well have been handed a million dollars cash.

Those are the kinds of moments Wes desperately wants to capture. It's that sort of look that makes humanity, for all its faults, so beautiful.

**XXXX**

Alex comes back from her vacation tanned and happy. "How did things go?" she asks, giving him a brief, heartfelt hug. "I assume since the building is still standing, you didn't burn it down in a fit of pique."

"Thought about it a few times," he chirps, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. Alex is one of the only people Wes is almost completely comfortable with. It's why they've been friends for so long. "But I held back. If only because I knew you'd kill me so the life insurance could cover rebuilding costs."

"That is very true," she teases. She pulls back, claps her hands, ready to get down to business after so long away. "And how did it go when you covered my jobs? You manage alright? Pictures turn out fine?"

"You tell me." He sits her down, pulls out the photos from the jobs he covered. There aren't many; there's a reason they both have their specialties, and they don't overlap often. But sometimes it's necessary, and the jobs Wes covered for Alex were the ones that simply couldn't be rescheduled.

Alex goes through the photos, making approving noises and occasionally stealing his post-it notes to make little reminders for herself. Overall, though, she seems happy with the results, to the point that she teases Wes could take over all her jobs and she'll just go on permanent vacation.

"Don't even think about it," Wes snarks back. "You're not getting out of this that easily."

She chuckles, gathering up the photos. "Yeah, yeah. Well, I'll send these off, do my thing. Thanks again, Wes."

He rises, brushes her arm with his fingertips, and says, "Don't ever go away again."

Her laughter follows her through the door.

**XXXX**

"Hey, I can't make it today," Travis calls to tell him. "So many things are going wrong and this photographer is completely incompetent so the shoot is running like four hours behind."

"It's fine," Wes says calmly. "Another day, then."

He hangs up feeling disappointed, though he can't really pinpoint why.

**XXXX**

"What are you doing?"

Alex glances up, a folder of photos in her hands. "Wes, hey. I was…looking for the Travis Marks photos. You didn't give them to me yesterday."

Wes knows which folder is in her hands. "That's not it."

"I know." She looks back down at the photos, looking caught between a smile and a frown. "These are good, Wes. Really good."

There's an odd catch to her voice. Wes narrows his eyes. "What? What is it?"

She moves around the desk, presses the folder into his hands. "A picture's worth a thousand words. It's all right here." Then she smiles, tips her head and presses their foreheads together. "I'm happy for you, Wes."

She leaves quietly, shuts the door gently behind her.

Wes stands in the middle of his office and stares at the folder in his hands. "What the _hell?_"

**XXXX**

He goes over the pictures. They're Travis's shots, of course, all the photos he'd taken since starting this little 'project' with Travis. Wes can't see anything different about them, other than the gradual way Travis opens up for the camera.

Frowning, he takes a random selection of photographs and hangs them on the corkboard in his office. Then he moves to the other side of the room and studies them.

He's always been able to see better from a distance.

What he sees makes him blanch.

"Oh _shit_."

**XXXX**

His grandfather had a camera, an old Nikon. Wes used to love playing with it, following his grandfather's careful instructions on how to handle the old device. He spent hours taking pictures, looking at the world in slivers, tiny squares of reality he captured forever.

"A photographer must always stay behind the camera, Wesley," his grandfather would say, "especially when you're taking pictures of people. Landscapes—you can imbue the picture with the awe of a sunset, or the loneliness of an empty house. But people…you need to let the people shine through, so the photographer must always stay behind the camera."

Wes doesn't know how he forgot that cardinal rule.

**XXXX**

"I can't photograph you anymore."

"What? Why? What happened?"

Wes is eternally grateful he's doing this over the phone. If they were face to face, he's sure everything would be written all over his face. He can't…he can't do that.

"You'll be fine," he tells Travis, with more calm than he actually feels. "You're doing much better. Just keep…doing what you've been doing, and you'll be—" He swallows hard, forces his voice level. "Fantastic."

"Wes, what's going on?"

"Please don't come back anymore."

Wes hangs up with Travis's protests ringing in his ears.

**XXXX**

"You know…" Alex leans in his doorway, arms crossed, frowning at him. "When I said I was happy for you, I meant it. I didn't mean you should cut out that happiness from your life completely."

Wes shuffles random papers on his desk. "It's complicated."

"It's not." She moves into the room, reaches out and covers his hand with her own. He stills. "It's simple. You're scared. You don't have to be." She strokes her thumb over the back of his hand. "Did you even look at the pictures?"

"Of course I looked at the pictures!" He yanks his hand away, throwing his arms up. "But it's _not_ that simple. I'm not—I'm not _scared_, okay? I just know better."

She gets that look on her face, the tight-lipped, pinched one that comes about whenever he avoids people or makes excuses not to go out. "Right. Because people are messy and complicated and ugly when you get close."

She steps forward, mere inches away, and he takes a step back before he can think about it. Only many years of continued friendship keeps him from stepping back further. It still makes her face go a little sad. "Did you ever think, Wes," she asks, voice low, "that sometimes the messy, complicated things just make a person more beautiful? Not everyone is that ugly when you get close. You just never gave anyone a chance to show you."

He doesn't even know what he's supposed to say to that.

She moves back, giving him some breathing room. "You should at least talk to him. Explain your reasoning. Maybe then he'll stop calling ten times a day."

"Fine," he snaps through gritted teeth. "I'll talk to him. Happy?"

"Absolutely." She smiles, hooks a thumb over her shoulder. "And what timing. He's waiting in the lobby. Should I go get him?"

Sometimes he really hates his life.

**XXXX**

"Hey, Wes."

Travis looks good. Better than good, actually, though that could just be Wes's newfound revelation and a week of avoidance talking. He silently gestures to the chair opposite him. Slowly, Travis sits.

"I thought I told you not to come back."

"Not until you explain it to me." Travis crosses his arms, stubbornness radiating from every line of his body, just like the first time he sat in the lobby, demanding answers. "You can't just cut me off like that, man. I thought we—" He falters, reevaluating whatever he was going to say. "I thought we were friends," he finishes lamely.

"We weren't friends, Travis," Wes tells him, because they weren't. They were strangers, and then…they weren't.

The model flinches minutely, but the stubbornness is back. He's not going to move until he knows what's going on.

Wes is going to have to show him the photos.

Sighing, he reaches for the folder and begins laying the pictures out on the desk. "I realized something," he explains, watching the glossy pictures on the table rather than Travis's face. "Something I should have realized a lot sooner. And it isn't…I can't work like this."

Travis stares at the photographs, fingers tracing the air above each portrait, and he's silent long enough that Wes starts getting nervous. He fidgets, straightening his pens in a neat little row.

Finally, Travis says, in a choked little voice, "You're a really good photographer, Wes. I didn't even…" and Wes knows that Travis sees it too.

He closes his eyes against the awkward catch in the model's voice and ignores the sharp pang in his chest. This, _this_ is why he doesn't get involved with people. It just ends in pain.

He exhales and says, "I'm sorry," at the exact same moment Travis starts saying, "Sorry man, I didn't mean—"

Wes snaps his eyes open. Travis stares back, wide-eyed.

"What do you have to be sorry about?" Travis asks.

Wes blinks. "I…a photographer has to stay behind the camera. His emotions can't overshadow the subject. That's the rule, and I—I couldn't…" He frowns. "Why are _you _sorry?"

"Because I was…I was being _too_ open, and it…scared you off." Travis looks back down at the photos in front of him. He takes a slow breath. "Wes…is it possible…that what you're sorry about…and what _I'm_ sorry about…is the same thing?"

"Really?" Startled, Wes looks down at the photos as well, but this has never really been his strong suit. "Then that means…what does that mean?"

"It means," Travis says slowly, "that we don't have to stop seeing each other. If you don't want to."

Wes looks at the photos again, and at Travis's hand laying on the desk. There's a part of him, a large part that wants to back away, apologize and close back into his shell and just forget any of this ever happened.

But spending so much time with Travis…it had been good. Really good. Maybe Alex was right. Maybe people aren't ugly when he gets up close; maybe he just needs to look at things in a different light, shift his perspective a little.

_You just never gave anyone a chance to show you._

Slowly, Wes reaches out, wraps his hand around Travis's, and he takes a chance.

**XXXX**

**I really like how this one turned out. Hope you did too.**

**Comments and reviews are always welcome!**

**Until next time~!**


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